


The Bride On The Train

by stuckwithminusharry



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst with a Happy Ending, Auror Harry Potter, Auror Ron Weasley, Estrangement, F/M, Harry Potter & Ron Weasley Friendship, London, Minor Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Past Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Past Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Romance, Roommates, The Golden Trio, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-02
Updated: 2017-10-03
Packaged: 2018-12-23 03:13:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11980884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stuckwithminusharry/pseuds/stuckwithminusharry
Summary: “We thought she'd be back in no time”, Ron said into the silence, more to himself than to either of them. They looked up regardless, and he glared at the pair of them as though that might help, as though that could force someone – anyone – to explain. “She told us she'd be back.”A story about the past, the future, and the present – a story about estrangement and loss and mistakes and love and choice.(In the end, it's always about choosing.)





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> hello!
> 
> the bride on the train is here at last! it's taken quite a while to get here, my procrastinating self be blessed, and i am both terrified and excited to be releasing the story that has become a bit of a baby of mine into the voids of the internet. i don't have very much to say at the minute, so for now: fetch yourselves a cup of tea, and i hope you enjoy. x
> 
> \- jessie

Hermione's mother was an exceptionally smart woman.

"The first is never the last, dear", she told her, after Viktor Krum had asked Hermione's fifteen-year-old self to come spend the summer with him. The word needed not be spoken, the assumption, because her mother, Hermione thought years later, had always known – first crush. First love.

Hermione thought of freckles like stars and eyes the colour of the morning sky.

She smiled.

"He's not my first."


	2. Firewhisky & Champagne

"Is that alright?  
Is that alright?  
Is that alright with you?"

9 Crimes - Damien Rice

 

March 1st 2003  
Adelaide, Australia

 

“I'm just glad that's done, really. If I have to write another wedding invitation in my life, I'm cancelling the wedding.”

Hermione had yet to think of a kinder night. The air lay still and silent below the pitch-black sky, and the heat had, mercifully, gone until morning. All that remained, for now, was quiet chatter under white stars and smiles shared in the dark as they stood on their balcony, exhausted, but ecstatic, and wholly pleased with the day that was behind them.

Hermione smirked. “Will you ever let that rest? Besides, shouldn't _I_ be complaining, seeing as your family is about three times as big as mine?”

“You might have a point there. They'll all have arrived by now, actually, don't you think?”

“I reckon so, yes.”

She watched him lean against the metal railing: a tall, slim frame in the dark, watching her in return as he poured champagne into a glass and handed it to her.

“I wanted to thank you again”, said Hermione. “For agreeing to get married in England.”

“Sure.” He kissed her sunburnt shoulder and smiled up at her. “I know you've missed it.”

“I don't _miss …_ that's not the point, look, I haven't been in England since … it's just that I always thought I would get married there, you know?“

“Yeah, I know. And – Hermione?”

“Yes?”

“We're getting _married.”_

His voice was quiet, but brimming with barely contained excitement all the same. Hermione stared at her fiancé's face, drinking in his features – the way his nose curved into his eyebrows, and the way his smile lit up his face, and the mole on the spot just below his ear that Hermione liked to kiss.

Her _fiancé._ The word sounded weird and wonderful and terrifying all at once, even inside her own head.

She smiled at his words; her insides gave a funny jolt. She thought of England, and everything it meant – the thought of going back, if only for a little while, made her stomach bubble with excitement and anxiety and an odd sort of nostalgia all at once.

“I can't wait for you to meet them all”, she said, “My family, I mean – “

“Hermione, I've met your family. We've been dating for four years, remember?”

“You've met my _parents_ ”, she insisted. “You've never met my extended family, though, have you? I've met all _your_ relatives“, she added. “I can't believe you haven't met half my family … or my friends – well, some of my friends … I mean, you haven't even – “

“Hermione”, he said, “are you panicking already?”

Hermione let out a huff. “I'm nervous. That's normal. And healthy. And perfectly understandable, mind you.”

She was grateful he hadn't noticed, or pretended not to notice, how her tongue had stumbled over the words – or my friends – he just wrapped his long fingers around hers, and she squeezed his arm as they stood on the wide balcony, stars and champagne sparkling in unison.

He held out his glass once more.

“To the future?”

Hermione's stomach felt as fizzy as the champagne on her tongue.

Their glasses clinked softly in the darkness.

“To the future.”

 

***

 

London, England

“Oh, shite.”

“It's fine, Ron, I've got it – I've got it under control – “

“Jodie, let – “

“I said I've got it!”

“D’you – reckon you could warn us, next time you try to burn down our kitchen?”, Harry said dryly, but he was smirking when Jodie turned around, blowing loose strands of short, hazel hair out of her face. “We've only got this one, see.”

“Well, it's a crappy kitchen anyway. And you've been living off frozen pizza again”, Jodie said, pointing her finger at the two of them as Harry closed the door with a flick of his wand.

“Oi, that's not fair”, Ron said diplomatically, though a mischievous grin was tugging at his lips. “Listen, it was great pizza. Almost as good as your birthday cake. Thanks, by the way.”

Jodie scrunched up her nose. “You're making fun of me.”

“We'd never do that!”

“At least we had breakfast … “

“I can't believe they're making you work on a _Saturday_. Honestly, you guys are never _not_ working.”

Ron had just opened his mouth to protest when he noticed the assorted stack of parchment and paper that had come floating his way, stubbornly prodding his elbow. Ron recognised, with a tiny stab of guilt, Death Eater files that desperately needed updating, reports that had been due at the beginning of the week, as well as several bills yet to be paid. The woman hanging on the fridge sniggered from her Wanted poster.

“Oh, fuck off”, said Harry, pointed his wand at her. “And we'll finish you tomorrow”, he added, giving the paperwork a sharp stab with the holly wand. “Maybe.”

“If we're in the mood”, added Ron, as the pile landed – a little more forcefully than strictly necessary – on the far end of the kitchen table.

“Jodie, since – since when d'you cook?”, said Harry.

“I wanted to surprise you!”, Jodie said. “Well – mind you, I was starving myself. I got the evening off. _And_ I haven't been here for ages –“

“Unless we're counting you breaking into our flat so you could bring us birthday cake, of course”, said Ron, “which I'm assuming we're not.”

“– so I thought I'd stop by. It's not breaking in when you have a _key”,_ she added.

“It's breaking in when it's five in the morning and we're both asleep”, debated Ron, who was setting up their regular security enchantments with a few silent flicks of his wand.

“It's breaking in when the key in question is our emergency key, which you nicked”, pointed out Harry, gazing momentarily into the Foe-Glass hovering next to the door by force of habit.

“Here, have a taste, birthday boy”, said Jodie, as though she had never been interrupted, and held out a silver spoon to Ron, who grinned.

They had taken a liking to Jodie the moment they'd met her, on a rather miserable New Year's Eve a few years back – she had been hopping in and out of their lives ever since, lightening their work-laden days in the process. Ron had mastered the art of ignoring every meaningful glance Harry shot his way when she was around, every twitch of an eyebrow, and so they had never bothered to put a word on what she exactly was. She was just Jodie – Jodie, who didn't have a care in the world, who set Ron up for jokes that made Harry roll his eyes, whose company never felt forced …

Harry dropped his bag and cloak on their musty, dotted sofa before plunking down on top of it while Ron carefully sipped bright red tomato sauce and looked up, eyes widening. “Holy _shit_. It's – _edible_.”

“Harry, hit him for me, will you. You've got mail, by the way.”

Ron gave a dramatic sigh and sat down on the cluttered kitchen table, brushing aside some more Auror reports and slightly battered remainders of what had once been issues of the Daily Prophet. The articles they needed for work had been cut out and magically glued onto the otherwise empty kitchen walls and only started acting up when Harry and Ron ignored them for too long.

Ron reached for the small stack of envelopes Jodie had pointed at, and his mood lightened, if only a little, when he found a few entirely work-unrelated messages: he flipped lazily through more bills and interview requests and birthday cards from relatives he hadn't spoken to in years –

“Oi”, came Harry's weary voice from the sofa. “She's talking to you, Ron.”

“Harry”, Ron said dully, blood rushing in his ears. “Come here and look at this.”

“Not bloody likely. You staying over tonight, Jodie?”

“Sure. You see, if I'm being honest, I made these spaghetti mostly for myself.“

“Harry”, Ron said, a little louder this time, heart pounding painfully in his chest, and they both looked up. “Harry, it's Hermione.”

 

***

 

“What are you thinking about?”, asked Neil after their second glass on champagne, leaning against the railing.

“There are so many things we still have to get done. I can't believe how _much_ it is, even now …“

“I'm sure we'll be fine. We've got plenty of time.”

“Plenty of time! We've got just three months left, and we haven't decided on seating arrangements yet – “

“– we can't do that until we've heard back from everyone”, he pointed out.

Hermione wasn't listening.

“The bridesmaids still need dresses … we've got to pick music … and we haven't settled on a cook yet, let alone a menu … “

“Hermione”, said Neil patiently, “I _promise_ we’ll be fine.”

“I know we'll be fine! I just like to be prepared.”

“I know. Just – if you can, try and enjoy it, at least a little. It'll be over before you know it.”

“I _am_ enjoying it! It's just that …“

“It's just that you're really nervous.”

“Yes.”

“You're happy, though, aren't you?”

“Of course I'm happy! I am”, she said, squeezing his hand. “I _am_ happy, Neil. It's just – it‘s a really big thing, you know, getting married. You don't get married that often.”

“Oh, you'd be surprised. You haven't met my Aunt Brittany. She's on husband number … five, last time I checked.”

“Well, I'm _not_ your Aunt Brittany”, said Hermione. “And I intend on staying married to you for a while, thank you very much.”

“That's nice to hear.” His smile was glowing in the dark. “I intend on staying married to you for a while, too.”

 

***

 

Harry sat up immediately. “You're joking.”

Ron stared at the shiny envelope, his heart pounding rapidly in his chest – he felt like laughing and crying and yelling all at once, and when he looked up to meet Harry's eyes, he saw all the confusion and bitterness and unanswered questions they had tried so hard to let go – and relief, immense, overwhelming, incredible relief, mingled somewhere in the mess.

He looked around the kitchen – for a fleeting moment he felt like she had just come stumbling into their tiny, messy flat herself, wand clutched in her hand, hair sticking out in every possible directions … not a day older than eighteen.

“Ron?”

“I'm not … it's her, it's definitely her, it's –”, he let out a joyless, breathy laugh, turning the envelope over, and over, and over, and over – “it's her handwriting.”

“She's got to be kidding”, Harry said. “She can't be serious. This has got to be one big fucking joke.”

“She's not … she's not joking, she's –”, Ron ripped open the envelope and skimmed the shiny card inside it with an odd, sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, “she's … she's getting married.”

“She _– what?”_

Silence rang inside Number 42. Harry pushed himself off the sofa and pulled his wand out of the wand pocket in his sleeve.

“ _Revelio!”_ , he snapped, stabbing the tip of his wand sharply at the invitation.

Nothing happened … nothing had changed.

Everything had changed.

“When you say Hermione …”, began Jodie.

Harry and Ron both flinched at the name. It had been so long since they'd last said it out loud: It reverberated awkwardly around the silent kitchen, bouncing off the mismatched furniture and the old-fashioned, tiled floor, not quite fitting into the room anymore … into their lives anymore.

So much time they'd spent trying to forget her, pretending the gaping void she had left didn't exist – like they could will it to disappear if they just ignored it for long enough, if they just pushed it out of their lives, squeezed it into a dusty corner of Number 42, where it lay forgotten, never mentioned, never spoken of …

“… d'you mean – Hermione Granger? The one you fought the war with? That Hermione?”

And now she'd come crashing into their lives again, now that they'd learned to live them without her – now that they'd picked up all the pieces. Now that they'd superglued each other back together.

“Yeah”, said Harry, sinking back down on the sofa. He and Ron were still staring at each other. “That one.”

“I thought you guys didn't talk anymore?”

Quite the understatement, Ron thought in his haze.

“Well, we thought so too”, he heard Harry say through rushing ears, in a dry sort of voice.

"What happened? I mean, only thing I know is she left and never came back, but … you never –"

“Yeah … that would be the gist of it.”

“Then why's she inviting you to her wedding?”

“I don't _know_ , Jodie.”

Ron looked up. Harry's voice was weary with resignation. The sound was painfully familiar – they had come to associate the feeling with Hermione.

Even inside his own head her name felt like a stranger. Like his brain cells weren't used to spelling it out anymore.

“We thought she'd be back in no time”, Ron said into the silence, more to himself than to either of them. They looked up regardless, and he glared at the pair of them as though that might help, as though that could force someone – anyone – to explain. “She _told_ us she'd be back.”

They sat in silence for a long, miserable moment – Jodie on the kitchen counter, Ron on the laden table, and Harry on the worn-down, dotted sofa, as the little flat moved quietly around them, busy, bustling, brimming with magic in all its messiness. At last, Ron ran his fingers through his hair and let out a shaky huff. “Whatever. You know what? Who cares. Who the hell cares.”

Harry snorted.

 

***

 

“I'm going inside”, Neil said, after a long, comfortable moment of silence, and gave her shoulder a gentle nudge. “You coming? It's getting chilly out here.”

Hermione laughed. “ _This_ is not chilly. This isn't even close to chilly. I think we'll have to buy you another jacket before England.”

She heard quiet chuckling from the living room and turned her back to the open backdoor of their apartment, breathing in the darkness, listening as his footsteps faded. Part of her – the part closest to her fluttering stomach – never wanted him to leave.

She had felt his quizzical look on her when she'd signed their invitation, his many silent questions, but being the kind of person Neil was, he had been sensitive enough to wait for her explain, should explaining be needed.

Only she never had.

It was too much, too big a secret, to tell him now, and if she was being honest, she had never intended to. That decision had been made the moment she met him … she had reminded herself of that, firmly, ever since she had absentmindedly jotted them down on her list of invitees, her mind five guests ahead of her hand. It was only when she stared at their hastily written names that she realised they were there … like some small part of her body, some part of her she hadn't previously known existed … had refused to forget them.

She couldn't bring herself to cross them out again.

So they stayed. And with their ballpoint pen names stayed their faces, and their voices, and their words … and all their memories. All _her_ memories.

They felt so far away now, the boys, and their world. So much time lay in between … so much time spent forgetting. So much time spent letting go. And all of that had been alright, in its own way, when it happened.

And now they were back – or she was.

And it really wasn't alright at all.

Her stomach churned again, as though scolding her. Had she not, then, spent the last five years carefully building herself a life in Australia, a life she had chosen for herself, far away from the boys and the world she had last seen as a teenager – both the boys, and their world?

 

***

 

“D'you miss her at all?”

Rain pressed against Number 42's dirty windows. Jodie had disappeared in Ron's room maybe an hour ago, sleepily waving them both goodnight, but Harry and Ron were still awake, sitting on either side of the old, dark-blue sofa, half-empty bottle of firewhisky tucked between their feet.

“Dunno.” Ron was grateful he was drunk – it made him forget or maybe just not care about the fact that he and Harry didn't usually talk about their feelings in the middle of the night. He hadn't, however, been able to drown the fact that they hadn't talked about Hermione in years – hadn't acknowledged that she had existed, that she had, a million years ago, been part of their lives. “I mean, yeah, of course, but … you sort of … get used to it? I guess?”

Harry nodded sternly, his chin resting on his chest. “Hmmh”, he hummed. “Just seems weird. That she's getting back in touch _now_ , y'know. Doesn't … doesn't … er …“ He scratched his ear absent-mindedly, frowning as though deep in thought. “Doesn't make sense, does it?”

A long silence followed this statement as they both stared past each other, eyes unfocused. No, thought Ron. It really didn't make sense at all.

He glared at the shiny invitation lying on the kitchen table, thinking grimly about how much it would have meant just a few years ago. Just a sign of life … that was all they had ever wanted from her. All they had ever needed.

And then, somehow, it wasn't what they needed at all. Because this invitation was so much like all the letters they'd gotten from her – a sliver of a message, never telling them what was going on, never answering their questions … she hadn't even included her location, sometimes … so many times they'd been on the verge of going to Australia themselves, to find her and drag her home if they had to – and then couldn't, because she hadn't even bothered to tell them were she was. Small talk, and then silence. That was all they'd ever gotten.

“Never made much sense, that one”, mumbled Ron.

Harry snickered. “True, that.”

“You going?”

“What?”

“The wedding.”

“Uh … yeah, I guess? I dunno, I … do wanna see her again and all that.”

“Mhm.”

“You don't, then?”

“Dunno. I'm still a bit mad at her is all.”

“Yeah … reckon that makes sense.”

 

***

 

“It's me”, whispered Hermione.

She felt Neil shift under his sheets as she crawled into bed next to him, squeezing his hand when it slid into hers; he turned around to look at her in the darkness, smiling as he did.

Beautiful, beautiful Neil. What she wouldn't do to keep him from harm.

“What are you thinking about?”

“Nothing”, she whispered. “The wedding.”

Childhood friends, she'd called them, when Neil didn't recognise their names on her list. And he hadn't asked … he'd invited friends of his own, people Hermione had never met … there was nothing suspicious about childhood friends. Even if you didn't so much as mentioned them for five years.

Even if they had once been so much more childhood friends.

She liked thinking of them like that, even if it wasn't true. The word had something oddly innocent about it: It allowed her to forget, and to remember … to wonder. What they looked like now, where they lived … if Harry still played Quidditch … if Ron still got maroon jumpers for every birthday, every Christmas …

“Neil, what's the date?”

“I'm – pretty sure it's March 1st, dear.”

“Oh.”

“Anything wrong?”

Hermione snuggled up to him, resting her head on his chest. “No. Not at all.”

She'd forgotten his birthday.

 

***

 

“Anyway”, said Ron, a little louder than necessary, “I'm gonna …”, he swayed slightly as he got to his feet, “go to bed.”

“I'm afraid Jodie's already – aaah, hold on. I just remembered you don't mind.”

Ron felt every ounce of blood in his body rush to his ears. “Oh, fuck right off.”

“Hmm-hm. G'night, _birthday boy_.”

Ron saved himself the trouble of answering and instead faked a smirk that felt barely convincing as he made his way to his tiny bedroom, stepping over dirty clothes and old Daily Prophets and a moaning, severely battered Sneakoscope, and tiptoed inside.

He slid into his bed next to Jodie and, too drunk to sleep, stared at her frame in the dark – at her awkwardly-cut hair, and her slouched shoulders, and at the part of her feet the blanket didn't cover. All things that Ron had noticed a million times. All things he liked.

There was a quiet shuffling sound in the kitchen, another door closing, and then just raindrops drumming on the windows and the sound of his own heart pounding rhythmically in his chest.

No explanation, no letter – nothing at all to indicate they'd spent the last five years wondering where she was. If she was alright … if she was alive.

Ron snorted into his pillow.

The nerve of this girl.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please do leave a comment if you fancy. hope you enjoyed. x


	3. Holding On & Letting Go

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> guys, your response to chapter one has been wonderful and overwhelming and infinity appreciated. i'm feeling beyond blessed with how thrilled you are for chapter two. here it is! sorry for the delay! i hope you enjoy! xxx - jessie

“So I heard  
You found  
Somebody else”

Somebody Else – The 1975

 

_May 2 nd 1998_

_Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scotland_

 

_The funeral is over, and the sun is shining._

_"So … when – when are you leaving, then?"_

_He can't bear to look at her anymore: he turns his head to find his family standing a few feet from them – finds Ginny, who is crying, and Harry, who is shaking, and George, who doesn't look like he's there at all._

_And then Hermione, right in front of him, looking at him with something like fondness, maybe, holding his hands in hers like it all doesn't hurt like hell._

_"I … today. I'm leaving today. Now, actually. I'm leaving now."_

_He's not surprised, not really. He's known this was going to happen – he knew it a long time before she got hold of his hand and dragged him away from the grieving crowd; that she was going to leave for her parents the moment she could, just like he would have in her place … only that he wasn't going to be by her side for it. That, he didn't expect. That, he doesn't understand._

_"There's no point in arguing”, she says. “I've made my choice."_

_"Hermione …"_

_She is no longer listening; she kisses him goodbye and turns around, and leaves, and leaves, and leaves …_

 

_***_

 

_"Harry, there's a letter!"_

_Summer has arrived. The meadows outside the Burrow are dry and brown, and its inhabitants retreat almost daily to the little lake tucked between a few once-green hills. In another life, they couldn't have been happier – but their days are riddled with outbursts of grief and frustration, and the Burrow has never been this quiet and unwelcoming. Ron has, more than anyone else, been relying on Hermione's letter to bring news and distraction, and he has, more than anyone else, been disappointed every time._

“ _I – oh”, says Harry, who is peering over Ron's shoulder to read along. “That's … “_

“ _Not a lot”, Ron finishes, not willing to look him in the eyes. He is, like Harry, staring at Hermione's shortest letter yet._

“ _What's it say? Any news? Anything … at all?”_

“ _Hope you're well … not a lot to tell you … still searching … Australia's nice”, says Ron, who is skimming her letter for the third time in a row, searching for something – anything – a clue maybe, or a small remark, anything that makes this letter different from the last two they have received since her departure._

“ _I mean – it's not nothing”, Ron tells Harry when he sees his face. He knows that look – it's never completely gone away since the battle. It's the truth, he tells himself: it's not nothing._

_And yet, sometimes, when he isn't paying attention, he catches himself thinking that this seems nothing like Hermione – how sparse her letters are, how vague – or does it?_

“ _You don't – reckon she's in trouble?”, says Harry, apparently trying, and definitely failing, to sound casual._

“ _No!”, says Ron. “No, of course not –  why would – she would've told us if … anything had happened. Right?”_

_Ginny shuffles into the room, stifling a yawn, dressed in just an oversized t-shirt and blue knickers. Harry blushes, but avoids her eyes._

“ _Right.”_

_Every day, she is gliding further and further away._

 

_***_

 

“ _Morning, Ronniekins.”_

_Ron wrinkles his nose and peers down his ladder._

_He's been spending more time at the joke shop recently. All Weasley siblings have: It is their joint attempt to try and nudge George into re-opening. He and Harry only ever manage to find time over the weekends – ever since Auror training has started, they have been downright drowning in work. They usually come to the joke shop together: Apart from everything else, they appreciate the distraction._

_Today, however, Ron is alone. On the bad days, it's usually best to give Harry some space._

“ _Hi, Ginny.”_

“ _Are you busy next weekend? I might stop by. Say hello.”_

“ _Sure”, he says sourly. “Just – use a Silencing Charm, if it's not too much trouble.”_

_He doesn't care, really, but Ginny doesn't have to know everything._

_No sound comes from below, so he stuffs the remaining fake wands in his hand into the nearest shelf and glances down at her. She's fiddling with the hem of her jacket._

“ _What? Harry hasn't invited you over?”_

“ _Would I be here if he had?”_

_Ron blinks at her, trying to process this information, and climbs down his swaying ladder._

“ _Flat-warming been nice?”, she asks curtly._

“ _Been alright”, he says. “We were waiting for you.”_

“ _Is he doing okay?”, she asks, and her voice is different now – smaller, somehow. Ron can't remember the last time she's used this voice around any of her brothers – it belongs to a much, much younger Ginny._

“ _Yeah, wh–”_

“ _Don't lie”, she snaps. Her tone irritates him, but at least this Ginny, he's used to. Few things feel familiar these days. And few people do._

_He pushes the thought away._

“ _He'll be alright. I'll have an eye on him, yeah?”_

_She looks small again, but nods._

“ _G'bye, Ronniekins.”_

 

_***_

 

“ _But we'd know, wouldn't we? They'd have … they'd have mentioned her name … if …“_

“ _They're still out there! These attacks in the Daily Prophet, that's Death Eaters behind them, they're still capturing and torturing and killing people … and it's not just England, it's Australia, too, and this is the second time, they might be looking for her, and she hasn't written to us since –“_

“ _I KNOW!”, roars Ron, and Harry falls silent._

_Christmas Eve has arrived with a gush of icy, steel-grey rain. Darkness and fear press equally against Number 42's windows as they silently gulp down their Christmas dinner (yesterday's pizza). Harry has spent the better part of the day pacing around their pitiful excuse of a Christmas tree, and Ron has written to Hermione three times in a row, telling her they miss her because he doesn't want to tell her they're terrified._

“ _What does she think she's playing at?”, murmurs Harry – finally voicing the resentful thoughts Ron has been so keen to ignore all day. One of the Death Eaters on the Wanted posters glued to their kitchen walls sneers at them from below a string of feebly flickering fairy lights. “Why was_ this _– “, he throws Hermione's last letter, dated November 1998, into the air, “not delivered by owl, but in the Muggle mail, and why doesn't it have a fucking return address on it, so we can go DOWN THERE AND FUCKING_ FIND _HER? She's not daft, she's got to know we're – worried …“_

_They go to bed shaking that night. Ron keeps shifting and turning on his mattress – at half past one, he climbs out of his bed, exhausted and light-headed and anxious, and stumbles into the kitchen, where he finds Harry._

“ _Mate, you look like shit.”_

_Harry grins joylessly – failing to distract Ron from his sunken cheeks, and his shaking hands, and the fact that he's been sitting in a dark kitchen for Merlin knows how long._

_Ron walks over and leans against the kitchen counter, where Harry is standing. He catches a glimpse at bloodshot eyes and wonders if Harry's been crying: It wouldn't have been the first time they've seen each other cry, he thinks sadly. With Hermione and Ginny gone, and with the pair of them no longer living at the Burrow, they've become each other's most important, and, in a lot of ways, each other's only source of comfort. It has strengthened their bond as much as it has increased their feeling of isolation, to be so reliant on each other – to have spent so many nights by each other's side, whiling away nightmares and panic attacks and grief. They don't talk about any of that, not really – they let each other sit in silence, because most of the time, that's easier than talking. Ron wonders what Hermione would have thought of that._

“ _I'm scared, Harry.”_

_Harry doesn't bother to look at him, he just nods. “Me too.”_

 

_***_

 

“ _Do you think she'll come back?”_

_Ron watches as Harry shifts on the yellow-dotted, dark blue sofa, eyes foggy with sleep and tears. They have been sitting in silence since they returned to Number 42, watching as the sky outside turns pink and red and purple as May 2 nd mercifully draws to a close._

_He reckons this particular date will always feel a bit like a punch in the stomach._

_It's been a while since they've talked about her – because all it does, to talk about her, is to cause a little more pain, and a little more fear, and they have enough of that as it is. Somewhere along the way, they have resigned themselves to missing her in silence, reading her letters in silence, waiting for her in silence – like that makes it hurt any less._

_Harry raises his head from the sofa – he looks, if that's possible, even more exhausted than usual. He looks at Ron with something like pity and disappointment and despair, all at once. Maybe he hates the answer as much as Ron does, even though they've both known it for a while._

“ _No”, he says after what feels like forever. “I don't think she'll come back.”_

_Ron gulps and stares out of the window while the meaning of these words plummets to the pit of his stomach. Before his inner eye he watches, again, as she leaves, and leaves, and leaves …_

 

… and never returns.

 

Ron opened his eyes.

Rain was pouring against the dirty windowpane in thick, heavy drops. His head was resting uncomfortably against the rumbling train window, his neck crooked at an awkward angle – he had dozen off. The train jumped and jerked as it stubbornly made its way through the foggy countryside. Harry was asleep in the opposite seat.

As quietly as possible, Ron started collecting the last bits of litter and paperwork left on the plastic folding table between them – he wasn't going to wake Harry sooner than absolutely necessary if he could help it. Harry may not like to admit it, but Ron was fully aware he still had trouble sleeping.

On top of that came their lives as fully trained Aurors, who had sleep deprivation practically written in their job description. Ever since they'd finished training, it never really _stopped_ – not when the Ministry relied so heavily on its Aurors to track down and imprison runaway Death Eaters, interrogate their sympathisers, break up underground networks … and exhausting though the job may be, Ron was filled with grim satisfaction every time he helped send another Death Eater to Azkaban.

In the beginning, he had wondered about Hermione – what she would have said, had she ever seen the piles of paperwork growing towards the ceiling in both their office and their flat while they busied themselves taking apart headquarters, hunting Death Eaters – and duelling most of them if they got the chance – sometimes he would imagine the annoyance on her face at the sight of their mess, if the loneliness ever got too much …

He found himself staring out of the blotchy window again – they'd spent so much time carefully pushing her out of every thought, tip-toeing around her name, because all it did was cause more pain, and more confusion … and now they were sitting on a Muggle train on the way to her Muggle wedding, five years later … as though not a single day had passed.

He pulled the wedding invitation from his rucksack: it was bent and slightly worn-down now, having been opened and closed and passed around so much, stuffed into pockets and yanked back out again: but the unmoving picture on the first page hadn't changed, and the two people in it hadn't so much as bat an eyelash. Ron and Harry had easily concluded that the man on the left had to be a Muggle – he did not carry a wand, his picture-self completely stationary, and he was wearing an elegant suit, too, rather than dress robes.

Ron had spent a lot of time staring at the two of them over the past few months, wondering who he was angrier with. Most of the time, he ended up glaring at the smiling young man he now knew was called Neil – looking at his smiling face didn't cause nearly as much pain as looking at the woman to his right.

She, too, was smiling. Her hair was shorter than Ron remembered, merely touching her shoulders now, and a shade lighter, as though frequent exposure to sunlight had bleached it. Her skin was browner, too – her shoulders and nose looked slightly sunburnt. She had aged, though it was barely noticeable: Her face looked slimmer and more defined than it had in teenage years. She had wrapped her arm around her fiancé's waist, and his was resting lightly on her shoulders.

The train came to a halt with an ear-splitting screech, and Harry jerked awake in his seat, hand snatching his wand out of his jeans pocket.

“All good”, Ron told him, stuffing the invitation back into his rucksack – Harry slowly released his wand, and his weary face relaxed, albeit reluctantly. “We need to get off, c'mon.”

 

Bright, pale sunlight flooded the old-fashioned little town outside the station. It was pretty: On another day, or in another life, perhaps, Ron might have appreciated the cobblestone streets and neatly lined houses, the forget-me-nots peaking through their picket-white fences, and the unfamiliar anonymity that only the Muggle world offered them these days. Now, however, as the toast in his stomach rumbled unpleasantly, he was fighting the urge to run back to the station and board the next train back to London with every step they took.

It had been the combined effects of being a central war hero, Harry Potter's best friend and part of the youngest group of Aurors the Ministry had ever had that had plummeted Ron into the spotlight in a way he'd never experienced it before: He got almost as much attention as Harry these days. To his own surprise, he had found that the whole thing had stopped being fun really rather quickly – the everlasting presence of the press had pushed the pair of them into the confinements of Number 42's security charms so much more effectively than Ron had expected.

And then Hermione … they had decided to tell the public as little as possible about where she was or what she was doing, which had turned out to be sadly easy, given their own lack of information. That had worked, for a little while – until the press had started to realise that the specifics of her whereabouts where a mystery not just to them, but to Harry and Ron, as well. Xenophilius Lovegood's four-page conspiracy theory on whether she had joined the Death Eaters might have been funny … if they hadn't been so scared, so confused. So hurt.

“That's got to be it, no?”

Ron blinked as Harry's voice reached his ears – he nodded as he looked up to the classy-looking little hotel in front of them, dizzy and light-headed with anxiety.

What a weird and wonderful and terrifying thing – that they were seeing her again, after all that time spent thinking they never would. They were here, and so was she, somewhere in this strange little town with its neatly lined red-bricked cottages and bright, cloudy sky. Every minute now, she was coming closer and closer.

“Ron?”

“Coming.”

 

They made their way up to their hotel-room in silence. People walked past them in the hallway, nodding politely as Harry and Ron walked past the lift in silent agreement and started climbing up the stairs to their floor.

How many of the strangers they made involuntary eye contact with, how many of the bodies gliding past them, were wedding guests? How many of them knew Hermione, whoever that was? How many of them had talked to her, and seen her, how many of them hadn't spent the last five years wondering if she was alive?

“This is us”, said Harry's voice from a long way off.

Two single beds, an old-fashioned carpet, a window. A coffee table, an electric kettle. Tea bags. Sugar.

"It said on the invitation she's staying here as well, didn't it?", said Harry. Ron's insides gave a funny jolt, as though they had just dropped down several flights of stairs.

"It did?"

"Yeah, I think so. There's some suites in the building across the yard, I reckon that's where she'll … Merlin, this is weird …", Harry dropped his rucksack onto the bed by the window, "I kept thinking we'd run into her any second. Odd, isn't it?"

"Yeah, it's odd!", said Ron, carelessly throwing his rucksack on to the single bed by the door. "Hasn't even bothered to say hello, has she? It's not like we haven't seen her for ages."

He walked up to their only window and stared into the forget-me-not blue sky. She hadn't been this near in five years – it made his head spin in a sickening kind of way, to think that she was this close, somewhere just across the neat yard, and still, she wasn't here with them.

"I can't believe this, y'know", he said, barely realising he was talking. "Five years she's basically ignored us and now she invites us to her fucking _wedding_ and she _still_ won't talk to us. I can't _believe_ this girl."

“ _You_ go talk to her then, if you care so much”, Harry said behind him, in a thoroughly exasperated voice.

“Me? I don't care”, Ron said briskly. “I don't care at all, thanks very much.”

“Well, go talk to her anyway. Actually, punch her from me while you're at it.”

Ron snorted, but turned to the door anyway.

“Hey”, said Harry's voice as Ron reached for the metal doorknob. “Hey, Ron – “

“What?”

There was a short silence. They stared at each other in a sort of grim mutual understanding: Ron at the door, Harry on his bed, and Hermione gone.

“Tell her I said hi.”


	4. After You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello again! once again, i'm feeling blessed about all your kind feedback and I'm thrilled i've got you all on the edge of your seats! i'm also starting to get a little nervous! the explanation is near and i really hope you'll find it satisfactory! nonetheless, i hope you'll have fun with a big pile of EVEN MORE ANGST (woo!) and i might even have a plot twist waiting for y'all today. or is it a plot twist ... ?

“Will leave you in the morning  
Will find you in the day”

In My Veins – Andrew Belle

 

_December 1998_   
_42 Heathers Road, London_

 

“ _You've fought again, haven't you?”_

_An old-fashioned lamp illuminates Number 42 Heathers Road’s dirty windows, its circular, yellow light bouncing off the kitchen table. The silence is that of a long day drawing to a close – interrupted only by the shuffling of jeans against wood as Ron shifts on his chair, and the soft clinking noises Ginny's fork makes against her plate as she eats._

“ _You can hardly call it fighting”, she says, cutting up a slightly burnt sausage. “Not when I'm the one who's doing all the talking. Honestly, I'm beginning to think I've had better conversations with Pigwidgeon.”_

“ _Just – give him some time”, says Ron, who has heard all of this before. “He'll come round.”_

“ _I'm trying”, she says. Ron looks up and finds that her lips are trembling. “I'm trying, alright?”_

“ _Ginny –“_

“ _He's pushing me away again”, she says, stabbing forcefully at a soggy potato, but her voice sounds defeated, exhausted – not at all the Ginny Ron knows. “And this time I just can‘t seem to get him back.”_

“ _You can't expect him to –“_

“ _He talks to you, doesn't he?”_

_Ron falls silent. He looks past Ginny at Harry's bedroom door, behind which he has vanished an hour ago._

“ _Thought so”, Ginny says quietly, watching her plate as though expecting it to give her some better advice._

“ _Look – it's been a really –_ hard _fucking couple of months for him, alright? You have no idea what he's –“_

“– _been through? We've_ all _been through a load of shit, Ron. It's been a hard time for all of us. No, look”, she says, when Ron opens his mouth, “I'm not mad at him. And I'm not blaming him. Ron, I want to help him, he's just not telling me how. You and I know I would follow him to hell and back if he asked”, she is smiling now, a joyless, bitter smile, “it's just that he never asks.”_

“ _Don't break up with him”, Ron says._

_Ginny raises an eyebrow, though she still isn't looking at him. “What makes you think you have a say?”, she asks quietly – the kind of quiet they'd use when they were kids and their parents were nearby, and they were afraid of getting into trouble for talking to their siblings like that. They'd never have admitted that, of course._

“ _It'll crush him if you do”, he says._

_Only they aren't kids anymore._

_Ginny stares at her plate. She looks tired – older than Ron remembers, and defeated. Now that he thinks about it, she's looked like this for a while. Finally, in a voice that sounds nothing like her, she says: “He's crushing me, too.”_

_Ron swallows hard against the lump in his throat. “That's not fair, Ginny.”_

_She drops her potato back on her plate. “I know.”_

 

_***_

 

_Water drips from Ron's hair when he shakes his head on the stairs to their flat. What the sky is plummeting at them today might have been supposed to be snow, but if it is, it's a rather half-hearted attempt. In the end, it's been another, wholly miserable day – weather-wise, work-wise, and Hermione-wise._

_On the staircase that leads to the third floor, he comes to an abrupt halt, the plastic bag of Thai takeaway still dangling from his hand. The door to Number 42 stands ajar – no sound comes from within._

_Ron pulls his wand from his sleeve – waiting for a movement, a noise –_

_He jumps when he hears footsteps drawing closer, and then Ginny rushes past him, so quickly he barely catches a glimpse of her face. “What –”_

_The plastic bag in his hand flies happily through the air as he turns on the spot to watch her march down the stairs, and with a horrible, dropping feeling somewhere in his stomach region, he turns back to the open door and enters the flat._

_The silence in the kitchen is trembling with shock._

_So is Harry._

“ _This is bad”, Ron says as he stares from Harry to the hallway and back to Harry, who doesn't look at him, but turns away at the sound of his voice._

“ _Harry”, says Ron, “what –“_

_Then he understands. Just as he has decided to turn around and run after Ginny, a loud bang echoes through the hallway – she has Disapparated._

_He finds Harry in his bedroom. He's lying on his back, staring at the grey ceiling – Ron is quite relieved to see his eyes are dry._

“ _She'll come round”, he says, a little too confidently to be entirely convincing._

_Harry doesn't move. He shows no sign whatsoever of having heard Ron, until he says: “This time she won't.” There's a moment of silence. Then – “It’s my fault.”_

_Ron hesitates. They've never been through a breakup together – there was no heart to mend when Lavender broke up with him, and he's never had a chance to ask Hermione to be his girlfriend in the first place._

_He gulps at the thought of her. Hermione would've known exactly the right words for a situation like this, he's sure of that. It feels like a punch in the stomach, it always does: the realisation, again, and again, how alone they are without her._

“ _It's_ not _your fault, though.”_

“ _It was me. I suggested it.”_

_Ron opens his mouth – maybe to tell Harry he's completely mental, maybe to ask why – but he just so manages to swallow his less than kind response and instead half-raises raises the plastic bag in his hand.”Food?”_

_Harry shifts slightly on his mattress. “Sure.”_

_So Ron takes a few tentative steps forwards and sits down on the foot of Harry's bed, dropping the bag between them. He takes as long as possible to unwrap the two boxes and the plastic cutlery and place them on the mattress, watching Harry out of the corner of his eyes – waiting for something, for an explanation, maybe, or tears, or a tantrum – but he just lies there, staring into the void. Finally, Ron pokes him in the knee with a plastic fork, and he gets up, wiping his face on his sleeve as he does._

“ _Listen”, says Ron, “she's family and everything – “_

“ _Oh, fuck off.”_

_Ron blinks at him, taken aback. "Why?"_

_"I don't want to hear it, Ron, alright? I_ get _it. She's your baby sister and you've probably known it would come to this all along, too –"_

_"What's that supposed to mean?", says Ron crossly. "I was going to say, she's family, but so are you, and I'm on your side, alright?”_

_Silence._

_"I – I'm sorry", mumbles Harry abashedly. "I – thanks."_

_Ron awkwardly pats his back and waits until Harry picks up his fork and half-heartedly digs it into a piece of chicken. “'s alright”, he says in what he hopes is a casual voice. “Finish up, we've got a busy day ahead tomorrow.”_

“ _Tomorrow's Saturday.”_

“ _Mould in the bathroom's back.”_

_He waits for a reaction – for a grin at least, or a snort – but Harry merely nods._

“ _D'you want to tal–”_

_Harry vigorously shakes his head, clearly avoiding Ron's eyes now._

“ _Alright.” Ron watches him for a moment, then turns to his own meal. “Kettle‘s started coughing again, too.“_

„ _Poor sod.“_

 

_***_

 

“ _GINNY! GET YOUR ARSE DOWN HERE!”_

_Mud and grass hop half-heartedly into the air when Ginny hits the earth with an earth-shattering thump and jumps off her broom. It isn't raining today, but the breeze is chilly and moist and tugs harshly on the emerald-green figures zooming around in the air._

“ _Shout a little louder, Ron, will you?”_

_Ron opens his mouth to retort, but Ginny says: “Look, I know why you're here and I know what you're going to say, but I really don't want to hear any of it, so – just leave it, yeah?”_

_His anger quickly subsides when he looks at her face. Harsh words aside – she seems miserable._

“ _You can't come to our flat anymore”, he says flatly._

_Ginny's face hardens. “That's a new low, even for you.”_

“ _I'm not – don't take it personally, alright? I'm just trying to –“_

“ _You think I'm not trying to protect him?” He feels himself shrinking under her glare. “Ron, just because he doesn't want to be my boyfriend anymore doesn't mean I suddenly stopped giving a shit about him.”_

“ _I know, but –“_

“ _I won't stop caring. Not gonna happen.”_

“ _I give a shit too, alright?”, says Ron sharply, and she falls silent. “I know it sucks – don‘t know if you forgot, but I really do – but he's hurting just as much as you are, and he‘s not alone, yeah? I get you want it to be you, but I'm right there, and I'm not leaving his side, alright?”_

_He looks into her eyes: hard and sharp like steel, and yet, they radiate warmth, so much like their mothers‘. Finally, when she nods, he feels every ounce of trust she has left placed on his shoulders._

“ _Merry Christmas, Ron.”_

 

_***_

 

“ _To being single”, says Ron, tipping his glass. Harry shoots him a murderous look. “Oh, come on, it could be worse. At least you know roughly her whereabouts.”_

_Harry doesn‘t bother to fake a smile and glances around the little Muggle pub they found a few streets from their flat. The place is crowded for a Thursday night – the bar is covered in “Happy New Year” banners and posters, and a large clock above the counter shows the time left until midnight._

_They don't go out a lot these days – they're too well-known to go to Wizarding bars, and they usually prefer the quiet of their flat anyway. But they've had a long day – a long week, really, a long month – a long and lonely year._

“ _No news from Hermione, then?”, says Harry._

_Ron shakes his head. “No. Nothing … for a whole damn month.”_

“ _Sorry, mate.”_

_They leave before midnight, but as they walk down Heathers Road, sad, and drunk, and disappointed in the universe, they hear the fireworks go off in the distance; and when they stop to look, reds and blues and yellows fill London's dreary sky._

“ _Happy New Year”, says Harry without looking at him._

_Ron stares at the exploding sky, and hopes; foolishly, fruitlessly – that when he looks down, Hermione will be standing next to him, wrapped to her nose in a coat and a scarf, eyes drunk on the fireworks, smiling when she catches his eyes – that they'll all be fine, or anything but fine, but together, the four of them – him, and Hermione, and Harry, and Ginny, under the same sky on a cold January night somewhere in London, and that that will be enough._

_But when he dares to look, only Harry is left._

“ _Happy New Year.”_

 

_***_

 

_A year later, they return: To the same bar, on the same day, and though, in many ways, a century has passed, nothing has changed. They find themselves an empty table in a corner of the crowded room, where the noise is just so bearable, and wait for the year to come to an end._

_They're on their second pint when someone comes squeezing through the crowd and stumbles towards their table._

“ _Hey, ah, do you guys mind if I sit down? I was supposed to meet my brother here, but he's not showing up, and there aren't any empty tables anymore.”_

“ _Make yourself a home.”_

“ _Thanks”, she says, sliding onto the bench next to Ron. “I'm Jodie, by the way. Who are you?”_

“ _Hi. I mean, Ron. This is Harry.”_

“ _Nice to meet you. Oh, there's no need to hide that”, she adds, just as Ron attempts to let his wand slip into his rucksack without her noticing._

“ _You're a witch?”, Ron asks, blinking at her. “Why spend New Year's Eve in a Muggle bar?”_

“ _And why pretend you don't know who we are?”, adds Harry, who is frowning. “Think we're that thick?”_

“ _Yeah, well, no, I do know who you are”, she says, perfectly oblivious to Harry's accusatory tone. “I just think it's nice to ask, y'know?”_

_Jodie's brother finds their table half an hour later and buys them a round. Harry and Ron agree over quickly exchanged glances and a nod each that they don't mind their company too much, so they let them stay – drink their beer, listen to their chatter and sit in silence as the last seconds of the millennium run out._

 

***

 

Ron's knees were shaking.

He could change his mind, he thought. He could leave, just like she had.

With every step he took, across the dapper little yard, under the dark, forget-me-not blue sky, the trembling in his chest got worse. Now that he was so close, he wasn't sure if he really wanted to see her.

When she had left, more than loneliness had stayed. She hadn't just left them sad. She had left them blind, and bitter, and raging, and she had no idea, because they'd never told her – because they didn't think it mattered, because in the end, she would always come back …

“I'm – I'm sorry, could you tell me what room – Hermione Granger is in?” He should be used to saying her name again by now. “I'm a wedding guest.”

“Please, what's your name, sir?”

“Ron Weasley.”

“Alright then … that‘s room 144, then.”

“Thanks a lot.”

He took the lift; he felt like he might change his mind if he didn't. He blinked stubbornly at his reflection in the mirror and brushed a few flyaway strands of hair out of his face, then back. His fingers felt numb.

The lift rattled to a halt. Ron didn't look up: He was busy trying to calm his shaking fingers and reminding himself that none of this was a big deal.

Except it was. It was a huge fucking deal.

“– sure it'll be fine. Really, Mum, I'm sure we can fix it.”

“Imagine of what the guests might think. I should've done it myself, I don't know what's –“

“You sound like Hermione.”

Ron's head snapped upright just as his stomach dropped back to the ground floor.

Neil Harwood was standing next to him in the lift.

He was tall and slim, though not quite as ridiculously tall and slim as Ron; he had a warm smile and an air of subtle confidence Ron could only dream of ever acquiring. His hair was brown, shorter than Ron's and thicker, and the woman he was talking to with an expression of both amusement and exasperation looked so startlingly like him she could only be his mother.

Ron shrunk into the corner of the lift; quiet, staring, terrified of what might happen if Neil looked at him – but that was silly, he told himself, he couldn't possibly know … and Neil wasn't looking … he would've done the same – he would've ignored himself too, had it been him in Neil's place, he wouldn't have noticed, either, had it been him –

“I'm sorry”, said the woman, looking up at Ron, “aren't you getting out?”

“I – y-yeah. Sure.”

Neil grinned at Ron as he stumbled into the hallway. He didn't turn around until he heard the lift rush off behind him.

This, he decided, was the point where any sane person would turn around on their heels, walk straight back to the station and get the next train home. Ron considered the possibility, but he wasn't going to chicken out, not _now_ – now that he'd run, however involuntarily, into proof she was actually, truly here …

What a weird and wonderful and completely, utterly _mental_ thing to think. He wasn't used to the thought of her being anywhere anymore – let alone in close proximity.

He didn't run. Instead, he took a shaky breath and turned down the corridor leading to room 144.

 

***

 

His first coherent thought was how different she really looked – he had not noticed, or perhaps not appreciated, how much the girl in the stationary picture on the invitation had changed since he'd last seen her.

"I – I – er. Hi."

He couldn't speak. He couldn't even look at her. He stared intently at her knees while five years of not meeting and not talking and not knowing welled up between them.

"Hi", she breathed, in a high-pitched, shaky voice: still her voice, all the same, exactly as he remembered. "Hi, Ron – Ron – it's – “

The sound of her voice saying his name was alien – there was something clumsy about the way the single vowel rang in the air between them. He wondered if she could hear it too: How unfamiliar his name felt after five years of tiptoeing around it, and then he wondered if she had tiptoed too, and if he wanted to know.

“… it's nice to see you."

Ron nodded, eyes still fixed on her knees. He wasn't sure what to say, and he wasn't sure what he wanted her to say, either: What did you say to someone after five years of wondering if they were still alive?

"… have you found your room OK? There was a bit of a muddle at the reception, they messed up the reservations a bit, I thought that might've been yours, Neil's just gone to sort it all out – "

"No", Ron said – some distant part of him felt like laughing. Merlin, she hadn't changed at all. Merlin, was he pissed off. Merlin, had he missed her. "I just –  our room's fine, I just – fancied a chat."

"I – of course, yes, I – do you want a cup of tea?"

He nodded before he could stop himself. His insides were squirming. So much time he'd spent fantasising about exactly this moment, on all those miserable, lonely days without her – and now he longed to be as far away from her as possible.

"Oh – sit down, please, if you just – there you go.“

Ron sank down on the edge of the forget-me-not blue sofa she had pointed at while Hermione worked the electric kettle, making arguably more noise than necessary.

"So – how've – how've you been, then?"

"Fine", he said, again, before he could stop himself, and then he wondered if he'd ever felt less fine and why he told her he was when she was the reason he wasn't. "Been … busy and all. Working a lot."

“I see – oh, what do you do for a living these days?”

“Aurors”, said Ron, in a voice that felt dull and distant and nothing like his own. “Me and Harry. We're Aurors.”

He was watching her, waiting – for some sign of recognition, for any emotion, any response to Harry's name at all.

“That's – that's great news, Ron, Aurors, I really – well done!”

“Well, it's not news exactly. We finished training two years ago.”

An uncomfortable sort of silence fell. Ron noticed it with grim satisfaction – it mixed oddly with his anger and his pounding heart. Hermione still had her back on him, apparently determined to avoid looking at him for as long as possible.

Funny, he thought. How miserable he'd felt while she was gone; and how fucking miserable he felt now that she was here, right there, right in front of him, not even looking at him.

“Where do you live, then? London?”

“Yeah.” Pause. “Harry and I share some crappy flat.”

She showed no sign on recognising the name.

“And – what about you, then?”, Ron asked finally. “Where d'you live?”

“Oh! Ah – Neil and I bought a really nice apartment in Adelaide a while ago.”

“I see”, Ron mumbled, determined not to think about Neil. “Er – congrats, by the way.”

“I – thank you”, she said. “And – speaking of Neil, are you … seeing anyone?”

“What – what?”

“I mean, do you have a girlfriend?”

“No.”

“Boyfriend?”

“There hasn't been anyone after you.”

It felt weird, to have said it like that – to state so it bluntly. Why he hadn't thrown any of her letters away – why he'd never asked Jodie out …

For the first time since he had stepped foot into her room, Hermione turned around. Ron couldn't remember the last time she had stared at him with that intensity – it made him feel oddly naked. There was a strange fierceness in her expression – like she was struggling to understand and beginning to realise, all at once.

He picked up his teaspoon and began stirring a little more vigorously than necessary.

“Ron”, she said quietly, after their most awkward silence yet. “That was … “

“Years ago?”, he asked, still staring at his tea as though it had done him a great personal offence, clunking his teaspoon against the fancy china. “Yeah, I've noticed. We've both noticed, actually.”

The silence was solid. Hermione wasn't smiling anymore.

“That's why you're here, then?”, she said after what felt like another five years.

“I'm here because I wanted to talk to you”, he said. “Got a lot to tell you, haven't I?”

“If you're just here to accuse –“

“Wasn't going to. Although, coming to think of it, I do have a couple of questions. Pretty sure Harry’s got some, too.”

She still didn't respond to Harry's name.

“Go ahead”, she said, her voice several octaves higher than usual.

“I – “

He'd never expected to be able to ask. He'd spent so much time pushing these questions away – if she was alive, why she’d left, why she’d stopped answering their letters – and here she was, staring at him with her arms crossed in front of her chest like all of this was somehow his fault, and here he was, still pissed off at her and still in love with her.

“Well – why didn't you come back?”

He didn't want to look at her – he just stared at his tea and closed his eyes when she sniffled, because for some reason, that made everything worse. She didn't have a right to be upset. Not her. Not now. Not after five years.

“It's not that easy”, she whispered.

“You're kidding”, he said. “You've _got_ to be fucking _kidding_ me. You just – just – _disappear_ for five years, and I – I – I was scared _shitless_ for you! And you won't even –“

“Look, I –“

“And Harry!”, said Ron loudly. “He was just as scared, we were both – “

“Where's Harry?”

“What?”

“H-Harry”, she said. “Where's he?”

“In our hotel-room. I don't reckon he felt like seeing you.”

She was blinking rapidly, staring past him as she swallowed, silent tears streaming down her face.

“Look, Ron, I – I didn't – I didn't mean to worry you – “

“There were Death Eaters on the loose! They were hunting Order members across the globe, there were attacks in Australia, we thought they might be looking for you, we thought they might've _found_ you, AND YOU COULD'VE _DIED_ AND WE WOULDN'T EVEN HAVE FUCKING _KNOWN!”_

“Ron –“

“You were supposed to be there”, he said, and the rage and hurt and despair of five years trembled in his voice. “Because we _bloody_ _needed you_ , and you were supposed to be there with us.” He didn‘t remember getting up: Just that he was back on his feet, pointing at her, and that the rage of the last five years, so carefully stowed away, hadn‘t gone anywhere.

„Thrilled to hear you got yourself a nice life“, he spat at her. „But just in case it slipped your brilliant mind, we‘ve had five _miserable fucking years_ , alright, and they would‘ve been miserable no matter what, but fuck‘s _sake_ had our life sucked a little less with you in it. Where you were supposed to be. With your _fucking_ f-friends.“

His whole face hurt. He was afraid to look at her – he felt like she might be able to tell. He'd never fantasised about this particular part, but if he had, he sure as hell wouldn't have imagined feeling so small, and so lousy.

“You were supposed to be there“, he repeated. „You were supposed to be there, and you just – you just weren‘t! Fuck‘s sake, we needed our friend, Hermione, and honestly, fuck you.“

Tears streaked her face. „Look – Ron, let me explain –“

“ _Explain_ , then!”, bellowed Ron. “Explain why you weren‘t there when we needed you most! It‘s only taken you five years!”

She looked at him with the same intensity as before, puffy-eyed and strange and wonderfully right here with him; and this time he stared back at her, until the silence became too heavy to bear, and Hermione tore her eyes away and gestured for him to sit back down. Every bone in his body ached when he did.

She slid into the armchair on the other side of the coffee table, her eyes continuously grazing his, never quite halting there.

"I don't know where to begin", she confessed finally – she sounded defeated. "I – I'm sorry."

"Not a bad place to start", said Ron, crossing his arms in front of his chest. She didn't take his words well – she wrapped her fingers around her steaming cup and pressed her lips together, refusing to meet his eyes once more.

“I needed t-time”, she said finally. “To figure everything out.

After I'd restored my parents' memories, they decided to stay in Australia. They'd built themselves a life while I was g-gone, and our house in England, and the d-dentist's office, they'd sold that anyway – there was nothing to go back to … so they decided to stay …

And they had no idea, Ron, of anything that had happened since I’d last seen them, I at _least_ owed them an explanation, and I owed them time. But I needed the distance, as well, and I needed time, to figure out what I wanted, where I was going … you have no idea what that was like, for –“

"What it was like for _you?_ "

“You and I fought very different wars back then”, she said, smiling bleakly through her tears. “Because for you, it was Death Eaters against the rest of your world, Ron, because that world is all you've ever known, but it wasn't for me.”

Ron sat, motionless, and stared at her. He had no idea what she was trying to tell him – only that whatever stood at the end of this had never crossed his or Harry's mind, in all those lonely nights spent trying to put the puzzle pieces together.

“Look, you were _born_ into the Wizarding world, but I wasn’t, I was invited in. Imagine being eleven years old and finding out that magic exists, and, even better, that you are, miraculously, allowed to be part of it, only to watch that same world turn into a battlefield that hates and hunts people that are exactly like you, deems you a thief, a liar, a parasite … It stops being magical after that.

You were impatient, and I don’t blame you, but you wanted me to come home so badly – and I didn’t know where that was anymore … I didn‘t know if I still wanted it to be _my_ world. If it still was, after everything that had happened.”

"I kept your letters", he interrupted. "I kept every single one of your bloody letters, and I don't recall a single one where you ever t –"

“– told you? Ron, how would you explain any of that in a letter? And – when I turned my back on Hogwarts that day, do you think I already knew I wouldn’t come back? See, I kept telling myself to give it time, wait until I was ready to go back … and I never got to that point. It felt so far away, after a while … and you did, too …

I didn't know what to tell you … and I'm sorry, Ron – I'm sorry, I never meant to scare you … writing just kept on getting harder the more time I let pass …"

"So you just stopped trying?"

She looked at him with a mix of tears and resentment that stung in his insides like he was fourteen again.

“I got used to Australia, and … well, you know the rest of the story, don't you? The Christmas after I’d left England, I ran into Neil, and … he made staying so stupidly easy."

"You're in love with him."

The corners of her mouth twitched. "You are here for my wedding, Ron."

"Then I have just one question", said Ron. "Would it have hurt you to at least let us know you were alive? Because we – we _showered_ you in letters –"

"You never said – "

"I sent you three letters that Christmas, Hermione. Three.”

“I’m sorry”, she whispered.

“They were hunting you”, said Ron. “Word got out that you’d sent your parents to Australia to protect them, and the next week, the Daily Prophet reported Death Eater sightings in Australia. And you – you couldn’t at least write to us and tell us they hadn’t found you?”

“I would have lied”, said Hermione quietly. “They did find me.”

Ron stared at her.

“Just once“, she said. „And I escaped. I don’t know how they found me, but I assumed they’d tracked my magic – or Pigwidgeon, maybe – that’s why I started using the Muggle mail. That, and, well … I didn‘t feel like using magic a lot after that.“

The shock faded from Ron’s system, and what it left behind felt like despair, writhing in the pit of his stomach. “Hermione”, he said, and he found himself stumbling over her name just like she had earlier – like the letters once fit in the space between his teeth and his tongue, but didn't anymore, and hadn't for a very long time. “We would‘ve _been_ there“, he said, „in a heartbeat, Hermione, had you let us –“

“I didn‘t want to worry you.“

„That‘s what we‘re your bloody _friends_ for! Or – at least I thought we were …“

"I'm _sorry_. I'm so, so sorry, Ron. I didn‘t want you to be scared. I knew you would come to Australia if I let you …"

“But you didn’t want us to.“

„No, I didn‘t“, she said quietly.

Ron nodded, and the bitterness in his mouth tasted just like it had the day him and Harry had come to that very same conclusion.

„Only because I knew that if I let you show up in Australia, you‘d ask me to come – home – of course you would, and I didn‘t have the words to explain … anything … yet.“

He'd lied – he still had a question left. But this was her wedding: and as he was sitting there, staring at his cooling tea, he was stuffing it into his pocket, burying it with her letters and the way her name had once effortlessly slipped over his lips, where it would cease to exist like just she had.

“You're still mad at me”, she said after a little while, “aren't you?”

“I don't know”, he said.

There was a small silence; Ron stared at his mug and willed the hotel-room to stop spinning.

“Does Neil know? That you're a witch?”

Hermione scoffed, still teary-eyed. “Why would I tell him?”

He felt empty: He didn't know what to say, and he didn't know what to think. Slowly, slowly, it was beginning to dawn on him just how far away she'd been all those years.

“Ron?”

He nodded once to indicate he was listening.

“You said … you said you kept my letters.”

Ron remembered with a dropping feeling in his stomach all the time he'd spent locked in his bedroom, reading and rereading every word, trying and failing to decipher what the hell it all meant.

He blinked. “Yeah. So?”

“Well – why?”

“What – what d'you mean?”

He hadn't touched her letters in years – he'd probably forgotten they were there, in the bottom drawer of his bedside table. When had he stopped trying?

“Why? I mean – you must've been furious, and – you said Harry doesn't even want to see me – which is – f-fine.” She gasped quietly, and when he looked up, she was wiping her eyes again. “So – why did you keep my letters?”

“Because I love you”, said Ron, without thinking, without really hearing himself, and even as he was saying it, the room had stopped spinning.

Hermione opened her mouth. And again, that expression he didn't understand. Strange, and searching, and sad.

“I – ignore what I just said”, he mumbled.

“Ron –“

“No, it – I was just kidding, I – it doesn't matter. Forget it.“

“I –“

“It doesn't – I didn't mean – just, nevermind”, he said, despite the hollow feeling in his chest. “That was years ago, like you said. Right?”

She blinked. “Right. Years ago.”

There was a moment of silence. Ron's tea had gone cold.

“Do me a favour”, she said. “Tell me what I missed.”

“Well – it's quite a bit”, said Ron, whose heart was jumping up and down behind his ribs, protesting, screaming, fighting with everything it had. “What d'you want to know?”

“I just … how you've been. How you spend your days. It's not like I didn't miss you”, she added quietly. “I did, I missed you terribly, both of you – “

“I know”, said Ron, but he didn't. That part still didn't make sense to him. “Well – we're Aurors. There's a Muggle bar not far from our flat we go to sometimes. We live in London. That tiny, mouldy flat in Heathers Road.”

Hermione looked up from her own mug, momentarily forgetting to look sad. “You're not serious.”

“What?”

“You don't still live in that awful place in Heathers Road you got right after …”

“– you'd left?”, he finished, and just like that, it had gone, that tiny moment that had felt almost normal – almost easy. “Well – yeah, actually. That's the one.”

“But … why?”

“Well … the tiny, mouldy flat's grown on us, to be honest. Plus – well, I guess it's not easy for two single blokes to find a place in London.”

“Excuse me?”

“I said, it's not easy for –“

“What do you mean, single?”

Ron stared at her. “Hermione, have you been listening at all?”

“And – Harry and Ginny, are they not …?”

Her face fell at the sight of Ron's expression.

“No – I – that ended years ago”, he mumbled, looking down at his mug as though hoping it would tell the story for him.

“I always thought – if anyone – why?“

Ron shrugged. He was still painfully aware of every muscle in his body, of the sheer intensity of her eyes upon him – he could feel his confession reverberating around the room, and yet: here he was, making small talk, like it hadn't taken him five years without her to finally utter the words.

“It wasn't about them, not really, anyway, it's just … Harry hasn't really had the best time after the war. You know what he's like. He pushes people away.”

“And he didn't push you away?”

“He tried”, said Ron, not quite able to ban the challenging undertone from his voice. “Ginny – she fought her arse off, you know, she really tried – they both did, but … they weren't the same. I dunno.”

“That doesn't sound anything like them”, said Hermione.

“Not the Harry and Ginny you know, no.”

She blushed.

“She's alright, though, isn't she?”

“Reckon so.”

He stole a glance at her face. She was upset; he could see it in the way her hands had clenched around each other, and the way her lips quivered.

“And Harry?”

“Like I said … it was ages ago. She actually stops by sometimes now. Never thought we'd get there again.”

“You need to tell him I'm sorry, too.”

“Why don't you tell him that?”

“I – you're right. I will. And I'll tell you – as often as I need to until –”

“I know you're sorry”, mumbled Ron. “I just – for fuck's sake, Hermione. A message, that's all it would've taken. A fucking sign of life.”

He watched as she wiped her nose on the back of her shaking hand. “I just – nevermind me”, she laughed breathily, bittersweetly, as she brushed tears out of her eyes. “I'm just – realising how much I m-missed out on, that's all.”

“You didn't miss a lot of good stuff.”

“I don't care about that”, she whispered. “Good or not, I – I missed five years with you, and I'm – I'm sorry. I'm sorry for all the m-mess I made, I'm sorry – I'm s-sorry I wasn't there.”

It's okay, he wanted to say, but he didn't. It wasn't okay just yet.

“I'll go”, he said into the silence. “Harry – he'll be waiting for me.”

“I guess I'll – I'll see you tomorrow, then?”

Ron's stomach backflipped. The wedding.

“Y-yeah.”

He turned to the door; dreading every step he took, again. Now that he was leaving, now that he was going to put a door and a building and then maybe a continent between them again, he simultaneously felt the need to say a million more things, and was completely lost for words.

When he turned around to face her, to say 'see you soon', maybe, or to say goodbye, she'd gotten up. And she had that expression on her face again, a mix of the truth slowly settling in and at the same time having no idea what was true anymore.

Or maybe that was just him.

All he had to do was open and close the door, and tomorrow he'd see her again. Then why was he so scared to leave?

“I'll – I'll see you at your wedding, yeah?”

Hermione blinked at him. “Y-yeah – see you soon, Ron.”

“See you soon, Hermione.”

All he had to do was leave.

Just as he reached for the door knob, she kissed him – and Ron felt like everything might, might just be okay, just for the fraction of a second – and then he realised she was getting married tomorrow, and they both pulled back, and a second later he was standing outside her door again –

His heart was pounding painfully against his ribcage as he stood in the silent hallway. Her kiss had left burn marks all over his face, in every place she had touched: where her nose had bumped into his cheek, and where her hand had dug into his shoulder, and where her mouth had singed his upper lip.

He stumbled down the hallway and into the lift back to the ground floor. His reflection stared at him from the mirror inside the lift, paler than usual. He blinked. His reflection blinked back. Every part of his body was buzzing – a numbness and a craving all at once.

 

"So?", called Harry's voice from far, far away. "Did you talk to her?"

"I … yeah … she … yes."

"What's she like?", asked Harry – Ron remembered with a startled sort of jump somewhere in his stomach that Harry, too, had spent five years without her.

He put his face in his hands and stared at Harry through his fingers, his brain still humming with answers he never thought he'd get and questions he never thought he'd ask.

There was a long moment of silence – anticipating silence from Harry, and shocked silence from Ron – and then:

"She's completely lost her marbles", croaked Ron.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments make jessie happy! tell me your favourite line x


	5. Are We Out Of The Woods Yet?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello! welcome back! and, on an unrelated note, happy bi visibility day! i'm so happy you've all been enjoying tbott so far and can't wait to hear your thoughts on the new chapter. it's a big one! i hope you enjoy, and let me know if you did - but for now, i believe we've got a wedding to attend ...

“ _Are we out of the woods yet?  
Are we in the clear yet?”_

Out Of The Woods – Taylor Swift

 

_May 2 nd, 1998  
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scotland_

 

_The sun is shining, and the funeral is over._

“ _Just let me – let me come with you – “_

“ _They need you, Ron”, she says. “Your family needs you – Harry needs you – “_

“ _But you shouldn't –  you shouldn't go alone”, he mumbles._

_Hermione holds Ron's hands firmly in her own and waits for the trembling in her chest to settle – she has dreaded this conversation more than any other._

“ _Look, it was me – it was me who sent them to Australia in the first place, so I think – I think I should be the one to bring them back. They need me, Ron. And I … I really need them.”_

_He opens his mouth, but doesn't speak._

_"But – it's dangerous, and it could take forever – Hermione – "_

_"Don't be silly, Ron, it won't take forever. I'll be back in no time."_

_Hermione can feel the weight of her lungs behind her ribcage – every breath is a struggle. She's examining his hands, determined to memorise them – every knuckle, every freckle, every scratch on his pale skin. His hands feel heavy in hers._

_"But – "_

“ _I need to do this alone, Ron.”_

_"I want to help."_

_"I know, Ron, I know, but I need you to wait. I will be back, I promise – I'll be back as soon as I can – just wait. Just you wait.”_

_He takes a shaky breath, and then –_

_"So … when – when are you leaving, then?"_

_"I … today. I'm leaving today.” She blinks – her eyes are stinging, but she's not going to let him see that. “Now, actually. I'm leaving now."_

_Hermione watches as he aimlessly looks around; heavy-hearted and relieved all at once when he nods._

_"There's no point in arguing”, she says. “I've made my choice."_

_"Hermione …"_

_The buzzing in her chest hasn't lessened just yet, but when she steps closer, she is certain she is making the right choice: And all that's left to do is kiss him goodbye before she turns her back on the castle, and when she does, it's a promise and a question and a plea all at once; stay, stay, stay._

 

_***_

 

_Hermione is aching._

_Three hours, the clock on the bedside table tells her. The morning sun is close to colourless as it peaks through the hotel-room’s only window. Three hours she’s been sitting here, lost and lonely, on a hotel-bed somewhere in Australia, watching the sun rise._

_Ron’s letter feels sticky from her sweaty palms, but the parchment is the only thing around to hold onto – the parchment, and his words, so hastily written it looks like the letters might fly off the parchment any second now._

_Hermione stares out of her window, puffy-eyed, sore, and wonders what to tell him. She hasn't found her parents yet. She doesn't know what will happen when she does. She isn't sure where she's going anymore._

_But she can't tell him that. She also can't tell him that despite the ache it brings, in some ways, the distance is a relief._

_Instead, she tells him that the sun is rising outside her hotel-room, and that she is getting closer every day._

 

_***_

 

_They find her in the morning._

_She knows something is wrong, really wrong, when she lifts the enchantments around her most recent hotel-room and hears voices in the hallway fall silent. Whoever is standing outside has just watched her door materialise out of thin air._

_The door flies open with a deafening bang. Four hooded figures, hungry for revenge, raise their wands and take aim._

„ _Confringo!“_

_There’s a blast of white light and a ringing in her ears, and then Hermione‘s knees hit the asphalt street of a narrow alley, twenty miles further South._

_They must have traced her magic. It‘s the only way._

_The feeling that settles in her stomach moves and squirms like all the nights spent staring at unfamiliar ceilings in loveless hotel-beds scattered across Australia, with nowhere to go, and nowhere to return to._

_Her hand is aching – as she is sitting, crouching and crumbled against the grey, graffiti-covered wall behind her – a frightened child, a stranger to both worlds – she loosens her grip on her wand and tucks it in her sleeve – tired of looking at it, repulsed by it, her old companion, her only weapon. That explosion wasn’t her finest work – it was weak, she knows it, she feels it even as she is standing here, waiting for the fright to wear off._

_She scrambles to her feet, swallows a sob, and marches down the street, around the corner, and out of sight._

 

_***_

 

_I saw my parents today, she writes. Fountain pen on parchment. She‘s sitting in a loveless, cheap diner, a pile of aching bones and a heavy head hunched over in a corner, and the gaps between Ron‘s every line reek of hurt and bitterness and love._

_I saw my parents for the first time in a year today and they had no idea who I am._

 

_***_

 

“ _Dad?”_

“ _Down here, dear.”_

_Hermione steps down the last stairs to the kitchen and wraps her forget-me-not blue dressing gown tighter around her torso. She chooses the chair next to her father, who pushes a bowl of porridge and a cup of tea her way, and leans on his shoulder, just for a little while._

“ _Not hungry, then?”_

_Hermione blinks._

“ _Not very much”, she mumbles._

_Her father nods and brushes over Hermione's hair, gently dragging his fingers through the tangled mess._

“ _Sleeping been easier tonight?”_

_Hermione nods. “A bit, yes. Where's Mum?”_

“ _In the living room, dear.”_

_Hermione looks around the Australian house. Thinks of the light-flooded bedroom up the stairs that is now hers; “for as long as you want it”, her mother said._

_There's a painting of bright yellow daisies hanging on the wall next to her, resembling one that used to hang on a wall in England, a million years ago. No doubt her father picked it._

 

_***_

 

_They're impatient._

_'Maybe you'll be home by Christmas.'_

_She's read and reread his letter three times already, and yet every time she does, she stumbles over that last sentence. It feels like missing the last step of a staircase, every time._

_It's absurd to think that Christmas is just around the corner; after all, Hermione is sitting on her bed in a tee shirt and knee-length jeans, with sunburnt shoulders and awkwardly-cut hair. She thought wearing it a little shorter might make it easier to handle the heat. It doesn't._

_She looks at her bedroom window, at the owl tapping its little feet. The familiarity stings, and yet – they feel so far away now, both the boys, and their world._

“ _Not today, Pigwidgeon.”_

 

_***_

 

“ _Ah, sh- I'm really sorry.”_

“ _That's alright”, says Hermione, who has already bent down to pick up the letters she dropped when the stranger had bumped into her on the post office's doorstep._

“ _England”, he says, smiling, as he hands her the envelope with Ron's name. “You got friends there?”_

_Hermione holds onto the boys' letters a little tighter. They've been getting shorter – she's noticed, but she doesn't know how to help it. All they ask is for her to come home._

_Wait, she tells them, every time, until the word doesn't mean anything anymore. Wait._

“ _I … yeah. I've got friends there.”_

_He blinks at her for a second, then shakes his head, smiles, and says: “Sorry, I'm – Neil, by the way.”_

_In three-and-a-half years, when he'll propose, she'll be smiling, too, and she'll tell herself that the first isn't the last anyway._

“ _I‘m Hermione.”_

 

_***_

 

May 25th, 2003 

A buzz lay in the air on the morning of the 25th. As soon as the sun had risen over the little hotel, wedding guests flooded the corridors, all chattering, all bustling, buzzing with excitement for the day that lay ahead. Last-minute preparations were made, speeches recited under coffee-breaths, skirts straightened; at last, a long parade of friends and family members slowly made their way to the nearby church, where champagne stood waiting, flowers hung all around the entrance, and, as though to properly honour the occasion, the sun shone down on the jubilant little scenery from a bright blue sky.

Only three people had managed to avoid the going-ons: two of them were still locked in their hotel-room, both straightening their respective ties for what felt like the fiftieth time.

Harry and Ron had stuck their heads out of their door exactly one time, only to find an overwhelming amount of faces they'd never seen in their lives beam at them as they hurried past. After that, they had, slightly horrified, retreated into the safety of their room, where they were now taking as much time as possible changing into their suits. They had barely spoken to each other all morning: The silence inside their room was so awkward, so tense, they might have been getting ready to attend a funeral.

"Am I the only one who still thinks this is weird?", called Harry's voice from the bathroom. "To see Hermione get married?"

Ron snorted as he stared into the mirror by the door. He'd skipped several parts of what had happened yesterday when reporting back to Harry – it was one thing to tell him that Hermione was mostly the same (except she wasn't), and that it had been "fine, I guess" (except it wasn't) – it was another thing to tell him she'd decided to kiss him, or that it wasn't fine, honestly, not one bit.

"'Weird' is an understatement, believe me."

Harry stepped out of the bathroom and threw a glance at his watch. "I reckon we should get going. There's only so many times you can straighten a tie, mate."

Ron swallowed, refusing to pay attention to the weight on his chest. "Let's just get it over and done with, yeah?"

Harry patted his shoulder in passing.

 

On the other side of the hotel, Jean Granger was tucking the last loose strands of hair into the knot at the back of Hermione's head.

"Mum?"

"What is it, dear?"

"You told me something, years ago … that the first is never the last. Do you still remember that?"

"Of course I do, dear." Jean twisted a strand of brown hair around her finger and gently pinned it to Hermione's head with another bobby pin. "And, well, it turns out I was quite right, wasn't I?"

Hermione smiled. "You're always right."

"Nervous, are you?"

Hermione looked at herself in the mirror. She'd spent the last fifteen minutes running her hands over the many layers of her dress, as though to straighten it. She couldn't describe it, so she nodded.

"How did you know Dad was your last one?"

Jean smiled. "Some things, you just know. Do me a favour, turn your head a little."

"You just know", repeated Hermione.

"That's the thing about last ones", said Jean gently. "You don't choose them – you don't have to. One day, you turn around and realise they've been standing right in front of you."

Hermione thought of bumping into a smiling stranger in front of a tiny Australian post office, and sniffed.

"I'm beginning to think water-proof mascara wasn't the worst idea", said Jean, and Hermione giggled despite herself. "Now, do you think that's enough bobby pins for your hair to stay in place for a few hours?"

"It looks amazing, Mum."

"You're done, then", said Jean. "How are you feeling, dear?"

Hermione smiled. „Fine.“

"It's normal to be nervous, I promise", said Jean fondly. "Think of Neil – that‘ll help."

 

 

"Face it. We're late."

Harry glanced at his watch. "Ten minutes. We're good."

They half-walked, half-ran down the pavement to the church, past the flowers and the champagne, and then up the last few steps to the church entrance. A soft humming came from inside.

“Ron“, said Harry.

Ron turned around – a car had pulled up behind them, coming to a halt in front of the little path that led to the church through the flowerbeds on either side. They watched with empty faces as Hermione climbed out from the backseat, swaying slightly on her heels, smiling, laughing with her parents as she bent down to straighten her dress. She'd tied her hair into some sort of knot – her veil fell down to the ground, as did her dress, the wide, white skirt – her sleeves ended just under her elbows, and the only jewellery she was wearing was her engagement ring and a small necklace that matched it.

Mr. and Mrs. Granger smiled fondly at the boys when they noticed them and quietly disappeared in the church to give them some privacy – for well-wishes, surely, for light-hearted banter and last-minute congratulations.

Hermione looked at Harry first. He was staring back at her, and when Ron stole a glance at him, he was surprised to find that he didn‘t look angry, didn‘t look bitter – just glad to see her, his old friend, and sad, maybe, and a little lost for words. They‘d waited five years – the resentment, and the bitterness, and the hurt, they could wait a little longer.

Ron looked at them – looked at his friends, looked at Hermione, standing opposite them, a few feet and an ocean away, and inexplicably thought of Bill and Fleur‘s wedding – of the three of them, dressed up for the occasion, before the world had exploded. Of Hermione‘s lilac dress, and how she‘d smiled at him when she‘d danced with him, and how they‘d glowed, despite it all. How they‘d stood by each other’s side, smiling, drinking, worrying – wondering if they would have a future, if there would be friends left whose weddings they could attend. What they wouldn‘t have given, back then, to just know they would all be here for a day like today.

“Oh, my friends“, whispered Hermione.

And yet, here they stood, the friends, the strangers. Disappointed in the universe that had allowed them to ever let each other go.

He felt Harry look at him, then turn and disappear inside the church.

Hermione hadn't moved, and neither had Ron.

The numbness dropped out of his legs. He stumbled towards her.

"Can I talk to you?"

She hesitated. „Ron …“

"Please?"

She avoided his eyes, but nodded, and they walked past the round tables full of half-emptied glasses of champagne and disappeared under the trees on the lawn next to the church.

"Look", she said shakily, "if this is about yesterday, I'm sorry, because it was a mistake.”

Ron remembered being twelve years old and having Hermione stand on her toes as she reached for the Potions textbook he was holding into the air, effortlessly keeping it out of her reach – he remembered how at fifteen, he would bend down, and she would raise her arms when they hugged, fleetingly, blushingly – he remembered how she had to take two steps for every step he took, because everything about him had always been longer than her, taller than her, towering over her.

And yet, somehow, he was standing in front of her and he'd never felt smaller, and somehow, suddenly, she looked nothing like the person he remembered anymore.

"Hermione –"

"Look, Ron, it didn't mean –"

"Didn't mean anything?"

He ran his fingers through his hair, breathing heavily, annoyed with himself that his hand was shaking – he watched as she clumsily wiped tears from her cheeks, and panic settled in his chest.

"I shouldn't have", she said, avoiding his eyes. "I just – God, what the hell were you thinking?"

Ron stared at her. “Hermione, _you_ kissed _me_!”

“Well, you didn't have to kiss me _back_!"

She had pressed her lips together, as though refusing to cry – he watched as tears rolled down her cheeks, and every part of his body felt three times heavier, like his weight alone was enough to drag him into the ground beneath his feet.

Time stumbled to a halt between one blink and the next – for what felt like an eternity and the fraction of a second between breathing in and breathing out, they were both standing under the forget-me-not blue sky, under the trees next to the church she was about to get married in, and just looked at each other.

“I don't know what to tell you”, she said. “I'm just … sorry.”

“For what, Hermione?”

“I've made my choice”, she whispered, and Ron watched, again, as she turned around, and left, and left, and left – and even as she was leaving, and even in that last fraction of a second, when they both stood under the forget-me-not blue sky, panic left his bones, and for a breath or two, numbness settled in –

And then it crashed down on him, that she was leaving, again, and that this time, she wasn't coming back – that she was going to get married and go back to her life on the other side of the globe, and the trees and the forget-me-not blue sky over his head started spinning again, and he kept gasping for air and still couldn‘t manage to catch his breath.

 

Music had started playing when he slid into the church. Every pair of eyes was fixed on Hermione, who was gliding down the aisle, further and further away with every step – every pair but one. Ron spotted him turned on his seat, searching for him, his anchor – and when he found him, standing alone by the entrance, Harry frowned, tilting his head as though to ask: _You okay?_

Ron reached up to touch his face and found that his eyes were wet.

Harry would've noticed.

He forced himself to grin and shake his head, as though to shrug it off – but then the sight of Hermione, slowly, happily gliding way from him, caught his eye – and Harry looked from Ron to Hermione and back again – incredulous for a second, come on, you‘re not serious, this is not what I think it is, and then his face fell.

_Oh. Oh, no._

Ron nodded without looking at him. Harry‘s face softened as his disbelief turned to sympathy – he had understood.

„I‘m sorry“, he mouthed, just as Hermione arrived by Neil's side, and something inside Ron‘s head snapped.

So what.

So what if he'd never see her again – he'd already gone five years without her, who said he couldn't do the rest of his life, too?

He'd go back to his perfectly alright life in Heathers Road; he could finally throw her letters in the bin, in a year maybe, or two, and stop clinging to the sliver of hope they represented – he could ask Jodie out, if he wanted …

So what if it wasn't her.

When he raised his head, she was looking at him, and Ron stared back despite the burn it brought.

He couldn‘t have known what was going on inside her head. Couldn‘t have known that when she turned to look at him, she watched the last five years pass before her inner eye, in stills, in polaroids, searching for the mistake. Realising, at last, that he’d been standing right in front of her, all this time.

Hermione looked at Neil. Whispered, kissed his cheek.

And then she turned and ran up the aisle, past Neil, past the wedding guests, past Harry, ran and grabbed Ron's hand and dragged him out of the church, and they were back under the forget-me-not-blue sky and on the street, and left, and left, and left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments make jessie happy! i hope you enjoyed! what are your favourite lines today? x


	6. The First Is The Last Is The First

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello again! i hope you've recovered from last week's chapter's emotional rollercoaster alright. if you have, that also means you've made it to the final chapter of the bride on the train. once again - thank you so much for sticking with me and our very lovesick idiots, and thank you for all your kind feedback. it's been a pleasure to have you here, and i'm glad you've enjoyed the ride. now, i'll see you at the end of the chapter - this one's significantly less angsty, i promise. x

“So take my hand  
And take my whole life, too“

Can't Help Falling In Love With You – Elvis Presley

 

Where she was going, what the _hell_ she was doing, Ron didn't know. She wasn't looking at him – she just held on to his hand like her life depended on it as she dragged him down the asphalt road, almost floating in her white dress, further and further away from the church … and the further they went, the less he cared.

“Hermione –“

So what if she'd left, so what if she‘d broken his heart every day for five years – so what if she had a fiancé and most definitely lost her mind – she was here, miraculously by his side, clutching his hand as he jogged beside her. Her delicate bun was coming undone – he noticed because the frizzy strands that now stuck out oddly all around her head seemed strangely, and wonderfully, familiar.

She stumbled to a halt as they reached a crossroad and waited for a few small cars to rush past them, then kept running, across the street and down the next street, never stopping, never looking back.

“Hermione – _Hermione –_ “

To hell with it all. She was here.

The sun was setting when they finally came to a halt at the station. Ron looked around – he and Harry had arrived here a mere twenty-four hours ago, and here he was, on that same old platform, and everything had changed.

Hermione let go of his hand.

“Hermione?”

She had turned her back on him, bending over, catching her breath. Passers-byers where staring at the both of them. Hermione kept brushing over her veil with her hands, as though trying to straighten it.

It was the sight of her veil that did it – the full realisation of what had just happened hit him, a horrible, dropping feeling somewhere in his stomach, and a hesitant, elated twinging a little up higher – that made him come to his senses again.

Oh God, the wedding. Oh God, Neil.

“Wh– Hermione, what the hell do you think you're doing?”

Hermione straightened her back, wiped her eyes on her knuckles, and turned around to face him.

“I love you”, she said weakly.

“I'd figured that much”, said Ron, “are – you sure you're okay?”

“The wedding”, she whimpered. “I – oh God, Ron, the wedding – Neil – I – “

“You can –“ Ron cleared his throat. “If you want to – you can go back. I won‘t try and stop you.”

“I'm not going back there!”, said Hermione. “They all hate me now, surely, I mean – it's not like they don't have any reason to –“

“I'm just saying”, said Ron, “you could, because … it's just that it kind of looks like you're already regretting it.”

Hermione looked at him. The setting sun behind her illuminated the tiny curls standing up all around her head, and the many layers of her dress, and that same intense gaze that made him feel so strangely exposed.

“No, I don‘t regret it”, she said, and if it weren't for the sound of her voice, he might have forgotten she was still crying. “This might very easily be the first right decision I've made in five years … I just wish I could've done it – differently …” She sniffed. “I never wanted to hurt Neil …“

Ron lowered his head. The elated feeling was gone; he felt dizzy and oddly empty as he stood there and watched her wipe her eyes. An old Muggle love song was crackling from the station's speakers. He didn't recognise it, but he thought he might have heard it before.

“You – you love him, don't you?”

“I don't know … I thought I did.”

He shifted on his feet as she struggled to compose herself. Smooth, yellow evening light was pouring down on their heads.

“Yesterday, I lied”, said Ron.

“What?”

“I lied. I do love you.”

He might have imagined it, but he thought he might have seen the corners of her mouth move.

“It was the moment I left to walk down the aisle”, she said, “outside, when we were talking. It reminded me of leaving a-after the battle and … I said I'd made my choice, and that's when I knew I'd made the wrong decision, because that's h-how I lost you, then … and I never wanted to lose you again.“

Ron stared at her.

“You're mental”, he repeated, sounding slightly impressed.

Her mouth twitched into a reluctant smile just as a train screeched to a halt next to them, dirty windowpanes reflecting the yellow sunset.

Hermione turned to face him. “I'm getting on that train”, she said – she'd stopped crying, for now, but tears dripped quietly from her chin, and her voice was shaking. “You don't have to come along, if you don't want to.”

“But I could?”

“Of course you could.”

A sharp whistle cut the air between them. Hermione blinked and heaped her dress into the carriage, clutching the yellow metal pole for balance – then she turned around and reluctantly, gently, offered her free hand to Ron, who was still standing on the platform.

Ron blinked. The world around him had started spinning again, but this time he didn't mind it much.

“You're – mental”, he said. “Just – just to clarify, you're still mental.”

When he reached for her hand and pulled himself inside the carriage, people around them started clapping; Ron, whose knees were inexplicably shaking, looked at Hermione – it only dawned on him after a second or two, that they must think him the groom.

They must look ridiculous, he thought to himself – Ron and the bride, standing in the middle of a packed train on a daisy-yellow Sunday afternoon, going nowhere.

“Have you got – any idea what you're doing?”, asked Ron. “Or where we're going?”, he added.

“No.”

She watched his face as the train rumbled under their feet. He seemed quite alright with not knowing where they were going – he just looked at her in a way he hadn't looked at her in over five years, and Hermione – maybe for the first time – realised how much she'd really missed him.

“Hi”, she breathed.

He was still staring at her, with an incredulous sort of half-smile.

“Hi.”

They watched the tiny station glide from view, clutching the metal pole between them, hands not touching just yet.

Hermione's mother was, after all, not always right.

In the end, it's always about choosing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi, all - you've safely made it to the end. don't worry, there's a little epilogue still coming your way - next tuesday, if that's cool. and since my writing is almost always accompanied by music (as you may have noticed), there's a playlist on spotify with this soundtrack, if you will, to this fic. i'll leave you a link - just in case you're interested in the songs i wrote this story to. https://open.spotify.com/user/stuckwith-harry/playlist/2UvkmHN9oOBoNl4PKzdFC9


	7. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello hello! i hope you all enjoyed the final chapter of tbott and aren't too tired of me yet, because there is, as promised, a tiny little epilogue ahead. truth be told, i wasn't always sure if i wanted to include it or not: i only wrote it well into the writing & editing process of the other chapters, and i did like the ending as it was. but in the end, i decided what's most important to me is that harry gets a little closure too - he has, after all, put up with a fair lot of angst and drama while his two besties sorted out their feelings. cheers, harry!

June 24th, 2003  
London, England

 

Heathers Road hadn‘t changed, not really, except it seemed to have gotten sunnier in their absence.

“It‘s good to see you, mate.“

„Missed me, did you?“, Ron grinned.

„Not one bit. Hermione …“

„Hi, Harry.“ His hug caught her off-guard: They could tell from the chaos in her smile when she buried her nose in his shoulder. „Hi. Hi, it‘s so good to see you …“

„Good having you back, Hermione.”

“Harry”, she said quietly, “I’m sorry …”

“I know. We’ll talk about it, Hermione … there’s time now.”

„Anyone want tea?“, said Ron, who was watching, smiling, as Harry and Hermione let go of each other. „If the kettle‘s up to it?“

„Reckon we could give it a shot. Look, Hermione, this place is just as shit as it was when we first got it, and our guest-room is abysmal.“

„By which he means non-existent. Nice try, Harry.“

„You don‘t mind sleeping in Ron‘s room, do you?“

„I think I‘ll manage.“ Hermione mouthed a thank you when Harry grabbed her bag and quickly stepped aside to let an exasperated-looking, sore-throated Ministry Howler float by. „You know, your flat would look a lot less terrible if you tried and keep it clean.“

„Okay, that‘s it, I‘m sending you back to Australia.“

“Have you seen our work schedule?“, yelled Harry from Ron‘s room. „If we could afford a house-elf, I assure you we‘d have about ten.“

„They hate us at the Ministry“, nodded Ron.

„They don‘t hate us, they need us“, said Harry. „Which makes, well, exactly no difference. Sit, Hermione, the place doesn‘t bite.“

„You sure about that, mate?”

„He‘s kidding, Hermione. Well, I reckon he might not be, but still. Make yourself a home. By the way, Ron, Ginny was here, she said she might stop by later.“

“Sure”, said Ron, looking around at him.

A little while later, they sit on the old, dotted sofa, clasping mismatched cups of sweet, boiling hot tea, and chatter the day away. Healing, for now, and confused, and aching in some places, but drinking tea on a sunny June afternoon, and, somehow, exactly where they are supposed to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello again - well, this is it. almost 18k words later - 63 pages in my word document -, you've made it to the end: but before i let you go on with your day, i'd like to say thank you again. thank you for your feedback! for your excitement! for your kind words! they all made my day and i hope i could brighten yours a little with each new chapter. a special thank you goes to my girlfriend, quillsand, who 's been putting up with me sending her snippets of this story sans context for many many months and still managed to get excited. u da best, eggo.
> 
> i hope you had as much fun reading as i had writing - you've been a joy of an audience and i can't wait until we see each other again - perhaps in the comment section of whatever angsty fic i decide to fabricate next. until then, there's my hp tumblr you can follow if you haven't already (@stuckwith-harry) and, again, the soundtrack for this fic can be found on my spotify (right here - https://open.spotify.com/user/stuckwith-harry/playlist/2UvkmHN9oOBoNl4PKzdFC9). lastly, a little fun fact before we go: the old, dark-blue sofa with yellow dots in harry and ron's flat is an actual sofa that once belonged to my family. i'm afraid we got rid of it since, but it lives on in my memory and in pictures of me eating nutella with a spoon on it.
> 
> thank you for this lil ride! i can't wait for your comments and i'll see you soon x
> 
> \- jessie


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